Chapter five; interlude-
The next few weeks passed by lovely-like, with her mother holed up in her office doing Merlin-knows-what and the Baron accompanying her every hour of the day she wasn't sleeping. Even then, he'd take her to her bed chamber and kiss her at the door, and she'd kiss him back before pushing him back, and he'd laugh with amusement, as though he knew the dangerous thoughts racing through her head and the dangerous heat rushing southwards down her skin.
It was lovely-like.
Lovely-like: not quite lovely because things were still regrettably complicated, and she still regrettably hated that she had no choice in marrying him, but it was close to lovely. She didn't hate him, and she didn't hate his kisses or his hands on her hips, or his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. Those were things she enjoyed, relished in, even.
But this lust made her nervous, and sometimes, fingers of doubt would crawl up her spine, whispering soft nothings into her ears when the Baron wasn't around to chase them away.
She hated the fleeting moments between getting into bed and actually falling asleep: those were the moments the doubts came, like Cornish pixies with sharp-toothed smiles, all ripping away at the sense of serenity that the Baron had helped to build up.
He doesn't love you.
Your mother. He wants your mother, not you—never you, why you?
Because he looked at her mother much the same way he looked at her, with a roguish grin and wonderful eyes that sparkled wonderfully when faced with a wonderful challenge.
And Rowena was such a wonderful challenge.
So Helena kept kissing him back and pushing him back, and those wonderful eyes of his danced merrily each night she frowned at him with a "Goodnight, Baron, I do think you've overstayed your welcome."
—as though he knew that one of these days, she wouldn't be pushing him away.
